Fairies Of The Forest Floor

In this bedtime story, you are strolling through a familiar wood when you come to a place where you once built fairy houses as a child. To your surprise, the place you used to play has grown into a thriving fairy city, inhabited by cheerful sprites. They delightedly show you their homes, and honor you with a banquet feast.

Feat. rain sounds

Music/Sound: A Glimpse of Avalon and Fairies Dance by Flouw, At the Break of Dawn by Jakob Ahlbom, Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Discover a fairy city deep in a New England forest in tonight's magical bedtime story.

Sleep and Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel and I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

Listen to my voice for as long as you like,

And whenever you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and make your way into sleep.

If you're still awake as the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a meditation to invite joy.

In tonight's story,

You are strolling through a familiar wood when you come to a place where you once built fairy houses as a child.

To your surprise,

The place you used to play has grown into a thriving fairy city.

Inhabited by cheerful sprites,

They delightedly show you to their homes and honor you with a banquet feast.

The woods are lovely,

Dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost Stopping by woods on a snowy evening.

It rained overnight.

You can still feel a palpable moisture in the air,

And a dampness in the earth.

You recall waking briefly in the night,

Then being comforted back to sleep by the sound of rain whooshing outside your window,

Even a low rumble of thunder.

The storm moved on well before sunrise,

Leaving hardly any cloud cover behind,

And it allowed the early sun to stream effortlessly through your window,

Waking you gently and peacefully to the new day.

Ordinarily,

You would have slept in a little later,

But today,

You want to enjoy the early hours of morning.

The lingering mist from last night's rain acts as a conduit for the fragrance of flowers,

As they graciously open their petals to the morning.

It's an invigorating mixture of scents,

Both herbaceous and sweet.

It's good to get away from the center of town.

You're purposely renting a little cottage on the edge of the wood to avoid the bustling energy of Main Street.

It's overrun with academics this week.

They've come from all over the world for a long-awaited conference on the life and work of Emily Dickinson.

You might take in one of the public lectures during the week if you're feeling up to it,

But you haven't decided yet.

For now,

A walk in the woods is all you really want.

A little time in the peace and quiet,

A little time for contemplation.

It may be an unanswered question for those scholars and enthusiasts of Dickinson and her peers.

The question of why this part of the country seems to be a locus for literary and artistic creativity.

But you believe a walk in this wood answers that question better than words can.

As many times as you've traced their paths and wandered their meadows,

These woods never cease to enchant you.

It's as if there's something in the soil,

Or the water,

That nourishes these trees.

Something that also sparks the keen imagination and sets the spirit of poetry alight.

Dickinson,

Robert Frost.

It's on his trail that you now tread,

And others too were born here or called here by some whispering muse.

The great novelist Chinua Achebe came here to lecture for a time.

The playwright Annie Baker was born here.

And Holly Black,

Who wrote such engrossing fantasy novels for young readers,

Lives and writes here still.

And so many others have flocked to this little town in western Massachusetts,

Seeking inspiration perhaps,

Or answering the muse's call.

When you were young,

You called these woods magic,

Because that was the best word you had for it.

Now that you're older,

You're not sure you'd use that word anymore.

It makes it all seem too simple.

You've seen more of the world,

Spent years away from home,

Learned,

Loved,

And lost.

Everything is more complex now.

Still,

It's comforting to come here.

Set your feet upon the soil once more.

Feel the crunch of the leaves beneath you,

And the kiss of sunlight on your face.

You can feel those childhood memories flooding back with every step,

As though the trail is unfolding before your eyes,

Almost unchanged,

As if your memories are informing its very existence.

Is this what everyone experiences?

Returning to a childhood place after a long time away,

You wonder.

You'd always heard that those hallmarks of youth,

Old houses,

Schools,

And the like,

Seem smaller when you go back to visit.

Maybe that's the case with man-made places.

The woods,

A place of wildness and minimal human interference,

Feels somehow more expansive,

Achingly familiar,

And yet,

Less known than ever.

There's a rustling overhead and a chorus of buzzing trills.

You look up instinctively to see two dozen or more pale yellow bellies,

Gold-tipped tails,

A bevy of cedar wax wings flushed from their tree,

Flocking together to find a new place to rest and feast on berries.

They cross your eyeline and settle together in a nearby dogwood tree.

Here,

Their colors are on display,

From silky soft browns to blazing yellow,

Black masks across their faces and bright red wax-like tips on their wings.

Someone once told you the collective noun for these birds is a museum,

A museum of wax wings,

And they do look like something out of a painting.

You allow yourself a long pause to observe and admire the playful birds before you continue on down the trail.

The rain having passed and left behind only lingering traces of its presence,

There's an ethereal,

Glowing quality to the morning light,

A gilt pink shimmer that cascades over the tall trees and refracts through the tiny droplets of water still suspended in the air.

The effect makes the woods seem to glitter,

Blush and peach and lemon and sage.

You're grateful that today it should be so sunny and colorful,

Instead of gray and haunting like it often is after a storm.

The path splits here,

One way leading to a winding country road as you recall,

The other leads deeper into the wood and down a slope to a little basin where,

If memory serves,

You should soon encounter a rushing stream.

You strain your ears,

Eager to detect the sound of trickling water,

But it must be a little too far down.

For a moment you smile to yourself,

Observing the fork in the path and remembering that famous Robert Frost poem,

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

It began.

You wonder when in his storied career the poet wrote those words,

Had he moved here to Amherst yet?

Was he looking upon some divergence in this very wood when the spark of creative genius fell upon him?

Or was it some other wood,

Some forest entirely in his mind even?

As you make your choice,

Following the path that leads down the slope into the thickening heart of the wood,

You recall studying the poem once upon a time.

Your teacher insisted then that the poem is frequently misinterpreted.

The sentiment of taking the road less traveled by,

They claimed,

Has been turned into a simple platitude about non-conformity.

Take the road less traveled by,

Say the motivational posters.

It'll make all the difference,

When really,

Your teacher said,

The poet is not celebrating his unconventional choices,

But rather expressing a kind of prescient regret.

I shall be telling this with a sigh,

He says,

As though he looks wistfully upon that choice years ago,

Which set in motion the rest of his life,

And wonders what might have lay at the end of the road not taken.

You wonder,

Briefly and absentmindedly,

What roads you've snubbed in your life that might have led to great things.

You don't let the thought keep hold of you for long,

Though.

As you turn down the trail,

The overwhelming sweet perfume of milkweed floods your senses and clears your mind.

It's such a transportive fragrance,

Redolent of spring and summer evenings in Amherst,

Quiet Sundays with a book by the stream,

Counting the butterflies in the overgrown garden,

And indeed,

There are butterflies to be seen today.

Brilliantly colored monarchs,

Floating lazily and feeding on the milkweed,

You're simply bathed in the honey-sweet scent of the delicate pink and white flowers.

It sets your heart aflutter,

Like the butterflies that abound,

Such a sweet and simple joy filling you up,

So you seem to float a few inches off the ground.

How long has it been since you felt this kind of innocent,

Unfiltered joy?

And with the fragrance and the feeling,

The years seem to fall away.

The memories,

Scented with milkweed,

Come tumbling down the gentle slope of the trail and nearly knock you off your feet.

These woods,

These magic woods.

As a child,

You used to come here,

To this very spot in the woods,

And build fairy houses,

Using twigs and foliage from the forest floor to construct charming,

Rustic cottages,

Patches of moss to thatch the roofs,

And smooth pebbles pulled from the stream to line the tiny garden paths.

You created whole neighborhoods,

Whole communities for those winged creatures of your imagination.

And as you built their fairy homes and fairy gardens,

Fairy libraries and fairy tea houses,

You imagined stories about the little folk who lived there.

You gave them names and brought them to life through songs and tales.

Sometimes you did so alone,

Sometimes with friends,

Who plunged full into the depths of your fairy tale imagination alongside you.

You may not be Robert Frost or Emily Dickinson,

But this place gave you a creative spark too.

You haven't thought of those fairy houses in so long,

So their return to your memory on this sweet-scented breeze awakens a sharp pang of nostalgia and emotion,

A twinge at the bridge of your nose,

And the corners of your eyes feel suddenly wet.

Oh,

How much can come back to us only at the suggestion of our senses.

How much can float back on butterfly wings and the scent trail of milkweed,

The gentle sounds of the breeze through the undergrowth,

Rustling up the leaves from the ground,

Bring you back to a place of peace and comfort.

There's just a little chill in the air,

Enough to bring the daintiest of goosebumps to your skin.

How long has it been?

What if,

You wonder,

What if something is still there of those old fairy houses,

Even a pebble or two still embedded in the soil from the long set garden walkways you built for the fairies to dance down,

Or a twiggy cottage standing still overgrown with moss,

Perhaps now claimed by a deer mouse.

You look to muscle memory,

The hints of ages still carried in your body,

Your bones,

To guide you to the place where you might find evidence of your childhood self.

Your feet know the way,

And your legs,

Your arms,

Know which limbs to hold aside.

Off the trail,

Past milkweed bushes into the copse of trees,

And just now,

As you step beyond the river birch,

Your feet grow nimbler to avoid stepping on a sprinkling of tiny red toadstools in the grass.

You almost laugh when you see them,

For they look so precisely perfect,

As though they were drawn there by the hand of Cicely Barker or Richard Doyle,

Just the size you might have delighted at when you were young,

As a perfect place for one of your fairies to perch and read,

Or a shelter under which to keep dry during a sudden spring rain.

Your eye follows the trail of toadstools,

Dozens of them,

Straight ahead and scattered like seeds,

Until your gaze falls upon a wondrous sight,

Where you had hoped to find only the meagerest proof of your having once visited this place.

You find much more,

Much more indeed.

The crooked toadstool path leads not to stray pebbles and stranded cottages,

But you can hardly believe it,

Yet there it is,

A thriving,

Buzzing village of tiny glowing buildings and gardens,

A network of little houses strung with lights like fireflies,

No higher than your knee,

But sprawling to take up all the open space between the birch and elm trees.

The buildings are roofed with moss and tree bark,

And each one glows from within,

As if in each a tiny fire is lit.

In a tiny fireplace,

You crouch down,

Bringing your face closer to the wondrous little village,

So you can observe it in more detail,

The largest building,

Tiny still but monumental among its neighbors,

Has tall slender windows from which glow different colored lights,

Turrets and archways,

Make it appear almost like a fairy castle,

But looking closer,

Even squinting to peer through the many windows,

All you see inside are shelves of books,

Lining every wall,

A fairy library,

And behind it,

A magnificent tiny courtyard,

In which grow all sorts of minute flowers and ferns,

A fairy labyrinth,

Cut from tiny hedges,

Spirals at the center of the courtyard,

It's a glorious vision,

And it so captivates you that your mind clears of any concern to make room for unvarnished delight.

Who built this marvel?

Did someone come along,

Days or years after you last left these woods,

And find the ramshackle cottages you built so long ago?

Did they too feel the spark of magic in this forest?

Were they so enchanted by the fragrance of the milkweed and the soft flutter of monarch butterflies,

That they were moved to finish your work,

And indeed,

Build it into nothing short of a fairy metropolis?

Who might that person be,

Who would toil on fairy libraries and labyrinths in the heart of a New England forest?

You'd quite like to meet such a soul,

At this time when you could really do with a friend.

You're brought out of this line of thought by the sensation of a nearly imperceptible weight falling on your shoulder,

And the subtle feeling of breeze on your cheek,

Thinking perhaps a monarch butterfly has landed on your shoulder,

And flapped its wings to fan your face.

You turn your head slowly and slightly,

So as not to disturb the creature,

But it's not a butterfly at all.

And when you turn your head,

You find yourself looking upon a tiny,

Pointy-featured face.

Your eyes widen as you take it in.

A little person is standing there upon your shoulder,

Clad in purple pantaloons,

And with auburn hair that sweeps upward and outward,

As though whipped by a wild wind.

He has tiny ears that come to a point,

And smiling green eyes,

Green boots,

Too,

And a green belt around his waist.

His cheeks are flushed with life,

And his face wears a quizzical expression.

He's no taller than your forefinger,

You reckon,

But most unusual of all are the wings,

Two shining wings that spring from his shoulders and flutter restlessly as he regards you,

Shimmering and delicate as gossamer.

The little creature places his fists on his hips,

And squints back at you,

Then bends his knees and kicks off your shoulder into flight,

His wings buzzing speedily like a hummingbird's.

He floats out a few feet from your face,

Coming to look upon you at eye level.

He's still eyeing you with the same curious intensity.

Your face,

You're sure,

Is slack-jawed and shock-stricken.

This must be a dream,

You think.

You can't really be face to face with a real fairy,

But the little winged one at last opens his mouth to speak,

Breaking your awestruck silence.

His voice is surprisingly mellow and medium-pitched.

Maybe you expected the sound of animated chipmunks,

But instead it's warm and gentle,

And to your further astonishment,

The word that escapes his lips is your name,

Rising at the last syllable.

With the hint of a question,

You take in a long breath,

Almost a slow gasp.

How do you know my.

.

.

You ask,

Trailing off as you see the fairy's pointed face split into a wide grin.

We knew you'd come back,

He cries.

Took you longer than we'd hoped,

Though.

And before you can respond to this,

He's crying out in joy,

Calling across the fairy village,

Flying in wide circles,

And swooping down toward the buildings.

Snowdrop,

He cries.

Foxglove.

Bluebell.

Honeysuckle.

On and on he calls the names of spring and summer and winter flora,

Holly and blackthorn and burdock and slow,

And with every name he calls out comes a face and a pair of wings,

Flitting fairies all,

Each popping up from beds of flowers where they might have been napping,

Or sliding from underneath toadstools,

Or coming out from their cozy houses with eyes bright and faces rosy.

Soon the glowing metropolis is abuzz with translucent wings,

Each catching the morning light and sparkling.

The effect is like standing inside a snow globe,

As flecks of white glitter float,

Suspended all around you.

The fairy with purple threads and wind-whipped hair comes forward again,

And with him come two others.

A golden-haired fairy,

Barefoot in a simple white shift,

With an angelic face and a childlike sprite in magenta tights.

This one wears,

For a cap,

The tubular bloom of a foxglove.

Snowdrop,

At your service,

Says the golden-haired girl,

Bowing her head.

Thistle,

Says the wind-whipped one,

With a gesture of humility.

And foxglove,

Says the little one,

A flash of mischief in his eyes.

Delighted to be in your presence,

Says Thistle,

Who seems to be somewhat in charge.

And we're here for absolutely anything and everything you need,

You blink your eyes,

Dumbfounded,

And survey the extraordinary vision before you,

Really,

Truly.

A score of fairies flutter before you,

Eyeing you with admiration and interest,

Each of them distinct and beautiful in their myriad ways,

One with a daffodil bonnet and butterfly's wings,

Another clad in a poppy-red gown,

One here in a skirt fringed with ragwort,

One crowned with wild rose.

It's no trick of the light,

No detour of your imagination.

You even pinch your arm to ensure it's no dream.

But how can this be?

And how is it they know your name,

Finding your voice?

You ask them this,

How do they know you?

Snowdrop blushes and hovers forward.

If I may,

She says,

Her voice demure and sweet as honey,

We understand your surprise.

You may never have seen us,

But we have seen you.

This does little to clear up your confusion.

Thistle jumps in to add context to Snowdrop's remarks.

As he tells their story,

The pieces begin to fall into place.

He explains that they were once a wayward troop of fairies,

Left without a home.

When their original forest was cut down,

They wandered for many days and nights,

Searching for a safe haven in which to settle down.

But no place they came upon seemed hospitable for a colony of lost fairies.

Until one day,

They came to this wood,

And they saw to their surprise,

A young person gathering flowers and twigs from the forest floor,

Pebbles from the stream.

They watched this little one tie together blades of sweetgrass and thatch roofs with moss,

All the while singing songs of the fairies who might one day live in these abodes.

Some days,

The child came alone,

And some days with others,

Building beautiful,

If rustic,

Homes for imagined pixies.

The fairies lay in wait each day while the child worked on their fairy village,

Always out of sight.

And then,

At sundown,

They'd storm the meadow,

Tuck themselves into the tiny homes for safety,

And furnish their new living spaces with the gifts of nature.

They loved the child,

Who built homes for creatures of myth,

Never knowing that each night a fairy could sleep soundly for those efforts.

But soon the child's visits to the wood grew fewer and farther between,

And then they ceased altogether,

For many years,

In fact.

In the absence of their benefactor,

The fairies set to maintaining and improving their own homes,

Always hoping that one day,

The child would return,

And they could at last give thanks.

The story winds its way to your ears,

Fragranced by milkweed and memory,

And it warms you from the inside out.

You can see that younger version of yourself kneeling here on the forest floor,

Building ramshackle structures of woodsy debris,

Sometimes alone,

But never lonely.

Your memory twists and expands to fill in the gaps between the trees with fluttering figures,

Light glimmering through fine,

Wispy wings.

How can it be that they were always there,

And you never noticed?

But you did notice,

Somewhere deep within you,

Even if you never saw a fairy before this day,

You always knew the woods were magic.

Now there's proof of it before you.

But that's the thing about magic,

You suppose.

Proof isn't really the point.

You're speechless yet again as Thistle concludes his tale.

The fairies seem to sense that you're overwhelmed with surprise and emotion,

And their faces mark empathy towards you.

Can we get you anything?

Snowdrop asks.

A cup of tea to calm your nerves?

You stifle an involuntary laugh at the notion.

You've imagined a fairy-sized teacup balancing on your pinky finger.

Come,

She says,

Hovering closer to you and holding out a tiny hand.

A touch of my hand,

And you can walk with us for as long as you like.

You angle your head,

Curious,

But Snowdrop's smile is innocent and kind.

Her outstretched hand inviting,

You hold your hand out,

And she gently places her palm on your index finger at her touch.

You feel a cool sensation wash over you from head to toe.

A bright kind of tingling as your gaze fixes on Snowdrop's face.

Your periphery shifts and folds.

The trees,

The forest,

And the sky are all expanding,

Growing taller and wider and more imposing before your eyes.

No,

That's not it.

Of course not.

The forest is the place to be.

Of course not.

The forest isn't growing.

You are shrinking,

Shrinking down to the size of a fairy.

Snowdrop grasps your hand tightly.

You don't have wings after all,

And floats gingerly down to the ground at your side.

The rest of the fairies drift down to your level at their own pace.

Thistle and Foxglove come over to join you.

There's laughter in their eyes as they watch you.

Gleefully taking in the fairy city from ground level.

Oh,

That magnificent library at the center of town.

The sweet little cottages and gardens.

Here,

A tiny tea shop set in what looks like an old beehive.

A cobbler's workshop and a bakery from which the scents of rich,

Buttery cakes emanate.

Come on,

Have a cup of tea,

Says Foxglove.

His voice cheery and childish.

I want some biscuits anyhow.

The three fairies escort you to the tea shop.

Over its door hangs a garland of lavender and chamomile flowers.

Such a lovely,

Relaxing scent washes over you as you pass through.

Inside,

The walls are waxy honeycomb,

Each cell fitted with a drawer labeled with the names of herbs and tea plants.

You're welcome to anything you like,

The fairies insist.

They can even blend any number of teas together to suit your mood.

You peruse the drawers,

Selecting orange blossom,

St.

John's Wort,

Rose petals,

And ginger.

For your tea,

You take a seat in a soft,

Cozy armchair that's just the right size,

And the fairies fuss over you.

They bring you your tea and sprinkle it,

Of course,

With sparkling fairy dust.

Before you take your first sip,

It smells spicy,

Sweet and floral all at once,

And it tastes of lazy morning strolls.

In the garden,

You share a plate of macarons with Foxglove,

Each a different pastel color and flavored with sweet flowers and herbs.

As lovely as the tea room is,

You're eager to see more of the fairy city.

So your escorts,

The gallant thistle,

Gentle snowdrop,

And prankish Foxglove accompany you to the library gardens you saw from overhead.

At this level,

The flowers and bushes seem remarkably tall and effortlessly abundant.

There's an organic romance to the planting.

Instead of neatly ordered rows,

The fairy-sized wildflowers and shrubs overlap and entwine with one another,

Appearing at once keenly placed and wildly overgrown.

The mouth of the labyrinth gapes and beckons you within,

But you leap lightly past it,

Saving its call for another day.

All about the paths and lanes,

Fairies flit and hover in their business.

There are fairy parents in the park,

Helping their little children with budding wings to fly for the first time.

A whole,

Lovely fairy community,

Flourishing here because of you.

The hours slip away as you explore the fairy city.

You visit the tailor who fits you with new clothes spun of fine fae silk and flower petals.

You taste mead made from the forest honey.

You stroll through a gallery of shimmering artworks,

Iridescent paintings of birds and woodland wildlife by a local fairy artist.

Your escorts press their fingers to their lips.

As you pass by a charming cottage,

Best be quiet as you walk by.

It's nap time at the fairy nursery.

As the sunlight grows amber-y gold and the afternoon comes on,

The soul calls for a feast to be prepared in your honor.

You protest,

But the fairies are already flurrying to work.

And later,

Under the slouching sunset,

A table long enough for a whole village is set within the courtyard of the library.

Fairy lights are strung overhead,

And flowers adorn the table's surface at intervals.

A feast,

Indeed,

Is laid there,

Complete with ripe berries and puddings,

Buttery cakes,

And splendid pies,

Carafts of lavender nectar,

And honey wine for each section of the table.

A seat at the head is decked with lily of the valley and cow's lips.

This is your seat,

Of course,

As the guest of honor.

You feast among the fairies,

Drinking deep of the sweet nectar and indulging in sweet and savory delicacies.

When you've taken in your full,

You relax into your chair,

Contented and calm,

As a fairy band plays music in the garden,

A harp,

A flute,

And a fiddle,

Playing rustic songs that remind you of Celtic folk music.

It sets the heart and limbs to dancing,

You find.

Before long,

You lose yourself in the joy of the dance.

You spare a thought for some imaginary wanderer in the woods at night,

What music he might hear floating from between the trees,

What lights he might see dancing in the breeze.

Fairy lights bobbing and swaying above,

Music lilting on the evening breeze,

Wildflower perfume wafting through the air,

And best of all,

Good company.

Your troubles simply cannot find you here,

Feasting and dancing among the fairies on the forest floor.

What sorrow could breach these festivities?

Rip through the revelry,

Joy alone abides here.

Nothing more.

You'll stay the night,

The fairies plead,

As long as you like,

Anywhere you like,

In whatever cottage or bungalow you desire,

And how could you refuse?

Never have you known a place of such harmonic peace.

The plates are cleared,

And the band winds down,

So the dancers disperse and head to their homes for the night.

Thistle,

Snowdrop,

And foxglove are there to guide you to a place to sleep.

Your bones could certainly use the rest after such a day.

But as you climb the stony walkway to a row of fairy abodes,

You turn your eyes toward a patch of sky.

Between the leafy branches above,

A full moon,

Silver and bright,

Shines down on the village through a mask of clouds,

Thick,

Dark clouds,

Heavy with moisture,

And the first raindrop falls.

The fairy city is built to withstand more than a little rain,

But the single drop splashes over the city like a deluge,

Dousing you and your friends entirely.

Foxglove is overcome with giggles.

Off in the depth of the trees,

You can hear a few more raindrops.

Thistle tries to usher you inside.

Don't want to get drenched,

Do you?

But you look to snowdrop,

Knowing what you must do.

Her eyes grow tender and sad,

Yet understanding.

Can you reverse it?

You ask sorrowfully.

Of course,

She says.

Foxglove's eyes fill with tears.

He runs to you like an over-eager puppy and throws his arms around your legs.

Thistle sighs and bows his head.

Come,

Snowdrop says.

Her voice like sugar,

Cold and sweet.

She walks with you to the edge of the village.

You can hear Thistle comforting a distraught Foxglove behind you.

He'll be alright,

Snowdrop insists.

And besides,

You'll be back someday,

Won't you?

Hardly knowing if you're telling the truth,

You ensure the fairy that you will.

When you reach the end of the pebble path,

Snowdrop says,

Before you go,

A gift.

And she retrieves a little pouch from the pockets of her shift.

You take it and inspect it with curiosity.

The pouch is seemingly weightless,

As if there were not only nothing inside,

But as if the pouch itself were made of an impossibly light substance.

What is it?

You ask,

But snowdrop only winks and holds out her hand.

You store the pouch in your pocket.

Ready?

She says.

Ready.

You respond.

When your hands touch,

The cool,

Tingling sensation comes over you again,

And rapidly,

The fairy city begins to shrink before you.

The trees contract down to their regular size.

Snowdrop slides swiftly out of your reach.

You inspect your hands,

And the trees,

And the wood.

You look back at the fairy village.

Snowdrop is gone,

It seems,

Rushed indoors,

And the other fairies too,

Hurrying inside to escape the rain.

A few windows still faintly glow.

The raindrops gather speed and density,

Falling now closer together and with more force.

You almost curse yourself for not bringing an umbrella.

But then you remember that you left the house early this morning,

When the skies were clear,

And there was no rain in the forecast for hours.

So the only thing for it is to run.

You dash through the river birch,

Crash through the milkweed,

And climb the gentle slope to the fork in the trail.

On down the gravel path you hurry,

Rain falling steadily upon you,

In the dim cloudy moonlight,

Sprinting through cool rain.

You can't help but laugh.

It's a deep,

Irresistible laughter that bubbles up from the belly,

And into your throat.

It's exhilarating,

An unrefined,

Sheer,

Uninhibited joy.

By the time you reach the cottage at the edge of the wood,

You're soaked to the bone,

And exhausted from laughter.

You hurry inside and fall in a giggling heap on the couch.

Soon,

The laughter subsides into a full-bodied sigh,

An exhale on which escapes years of contained emotion.

Your pulse slows down to a tranquil,

Steady rate.

Your breathing returns to normal.

You change into flannel pajamas and light a fire,

Welcoming the dryness and the warmth.

It's all you can do to keep from falling asleep there on the couch,

Cheeks flushed with the fire blazing.

But there's something you want to do before you fall asleep.

You retrieve the pouch from your pocket,

The pocket of the clothing made for you by the fairy tailor.

Loosen the purse string,

And peer inside.

Something sparkles there,

A fine and shimmering powder,

Like colorful snow or pearly glitter.

Curious.

Soon after,

You climb into bed,

Weary and wonderstruck from the days of events.

You pull the covers tight and snuggle up to your pillow,

Listening with soft focus to the sound of rain plummeting down outside the window,

Purse full of fairy dust,

You think.

As a sleepy smile creeps across your lips,

Will it allow you to fly,

You think,

Or give you some gift,

Some spark of the creativity all those famous people found in these woods,

Or simply a spark of that raw,

Impulsive joy you felt tonight?

There's plenty of time to figure that all out,

Though.

Plenty of time.

Your eyes float closed,

And it's not long before the sound of rain lulls you sweetly into a deep sleep in your dreams.

A yellow wood with roads divergent,

Hope a thing with feathers,

Perching in the soul,

A quilt of snowdrops in the wood,

Dew collecting on the blossoms,

Cherries in the moonlight,

Butterfly wings,

And milkweed sweetness,

Memories of distant times,

Not happier than now,

Just younger.

There is happiness still,

Now,

And in the future.

It's alright.

Let your body and mind be soft,

Open and relaxed.

Find comfort wherever you're resting,

And scan the body for areas of tension that you can consciously release.

Muscles in the face,

The jaw,

The neck,

The shoulders,

The arms and hands,

The upper back,

Lower back,

Hips,

Legs and feet,

And now in whatever position you're most comfortable,

Find at least one part of your body that can be open,

Inviting,

Whatever that means to you.

That might be allowing the palms of your hands to fall open and face upward,

Or loosening your shoulders so your heart shines open,

Or simply softening the space between your eyebrows.

Just find a way to cultivate an openness somewhere in your body,

Even if it's subtle,

In a way that's comfortable for you.

Now,

Breathe in a steady rhythm that's natural for you at this moment,

Feeling lightness and cool air travel inward on the inhale,

And all that dark,

Cobwebby tension travel outward on the exhale,

As though you're clearing out darkness,

Negative emotions,

Unhelpful thoughts,

To make room for joy,

Lightness,

And clarity.

Keep breathing with this visualization here,

Out with the dark,

In with the light,

Out with the tension,

In with the softness,

Out with the unhelpful thoughts,

In with the clarity,

Breathe,

And now come back to that part of your body that's open,

Inviting,

And send the cleansing breath there,

As though the breath is moving through that part of your body,

Like a channel,

A doorway through which the dark can be flushed,

And the light can be let in,

A threshold,

A point at which you decide what to take with you into the realm of sleep.

If there's anything you want to save for another time,

Come back to in the morning,

Or simply cast away from you at this moment,

Flush it out on the exhale,

With the heaviness and the tension,

Make space in your mind and body for the experience of lightness,

Clarity,

Softness,

And joy,

Fairy dust,

Traveling inward on the breath.

You are loved,

You are safe,

And you are never,

Ever alone,

Even if it feels that way sometimes,

There's someone in your corner,

Now and always,

Wishing you happiness and sweet dreams tonight,

Blessed be.

Reviews

This is a wonderful story--creative, entertaining, and detailed.

Your voice is very relaxing making this another recording to help me fall asleep.

Such a beautiful story. Thank you for sharing this talent of yours.

I can only speak for the first dozen minutes of this recording, as I'm consistently asleep after that.

So beautiful and magical! I need to listen to the whole story while I'm awake! ❤️🙏🌻

I have always had a passion for mythology and stories and also love anything thats like imagery stuff you can Imgine see and feel in your head like you are there. When I seen this I bookmarked if straight away so I could enjoy it when I had more time. I really really enjoyed this even more than i was expecting I felt I was there it was me I could see there little faces I was there. Seeing there houses low down then when shrunk in my eye sight I felt I was with them inside. Thank you so much. This is kinda new to me it bejng audio so to find this is truly a blessing. I will be trying your other tracks now aswell. Also I may return to visit my little friends again I'm sure they will invite me back in ☺️

I would love to visit the fairies on the forest floor I would imagine it quite peaceful there. Thanks you hope all it well with new baby x

What a wonderful story. This took me back to my childhood and having tea parties. The settings were so magical. Pure enchantment. Thank you.

Magiacal and put me right to sleep! I will listen again to hear the story. Many thanks and Blessings. 🕊🌟🧚‍♀️

Thank you,Laurel🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻Lately, a lot of fairy stories have been turning up for me. Now your sleep story as well. I am playing it throughout the night, catching part of the story here and there. All good. Thank you🙏🏻🌟🧚‍♂️🌟🙏🏻

Thank you for sharing your gift. I never actually listened to the end because I fell asleep. Love it

I was having such a hard time sleeping, but when I listened to this I fell asleep with ease and calmness

I love all your sleep stories and meditations, although I’m never awake to hear the meditations at the end! They’re a beautiful escape. Thank you 🙏

Stunning guided story - thank you for a blissful nights rest! 🫶🏻🌙✨🔮🌿🧚‍♀️

I can't really say much about the story, I was sleeping. 😊

Strictly speaking I should really only leave this as 1 star because I never hear more than the first few minutes. I never hear any of the full story. But because I fall fast asleep and have a good night's rest, it has to be a 5 ! Thank you for your words and for sharing them with the Earth Family 🙏🏻🙏🏻🌟

Thank you for sharing your gifts. You tell lovely stories and have such a soothing voice ❤️🙏🏼❤️

Delightful story! I'm inspired to carry the charming setting into DreamTime in hopes of exploring more! What fun!

This was a lovely gentle story! I didn't hear all of it - just the beginning and part of the end - as I was asleep during the rest of it. I look forward to listening again.

This was so enjoyable. I love all of your stories.

Really sweet story, made me want to build fairy houses! Also made me sleepy!